Waiting
by dankedoodles
Summary: Hope meant nothing when concrete had split your heart in two. Prussia visits the Berlin Wall.


The feel of the wall against his hands is cold and uncaring, the obscene, bulky thing filling him with a sense of horror and disgust just by touch. He was surprised he'd been able to get this close, close enough to feel the separation against his fingers, without the guards chasing him, yelling at him, SHOOTING at him even. Shooting at him for what, wanting to get to the other side of his home, his land? What did it matter to them, why did they care? Would it hurt them inside to know that he's happy, to know that he's where he should be?

The thought makes the Prussian's blood boil and his nails rake against the concrete with a tiny noise of offense, eyes as red as blood narrowing in a deadly sort of glare. Never before in all his years, and how many years there were, had he ever felt such a hatred for something. And a wall of all things was the target of it all. A wall.

How badly he wanted to rip through it rip the stupid thing to SHREDS and watch it fall, rip it down down down down till there was no trace of it ever existing, and then he'd.

He'd see his brother again.

His brother.

His throat tightens with a sudden lump at the thought, and for a split second it isn't the freezing temperatures that are the source of the tremble making his short frame shake.

How many years was it..? He had started to lose count when the damned Russian started interfering and putting him to all that work. But he knew it'd been long, much too long. Gilbert had never gone so long without seeing those familiar baby blue eyes, without running his fingers through that always perfectly in place blond hair(and getting yelled at for messing up the style and yelling back that it wasn't like they were going anywhere), without being held against a warm, toned chest by strong, protective arms.

Yes, that's probably what he missed the most. How warm he was, how strong. How he had taken him in so many times when so many doors had been slammed in his face. His West had always been kind to him, despite how they seemed to fight and scream at each other every moment they were awake and within five feet of one another. They made up every time though, be it an apology from the younger or a more creative action from the older.. They never fought for more than a day.

The tattered, broken nation is wearing something that was probably a smile a while ago, the expression a mere ghost of the proud grin that was always glued on his face in years past. Thoughts of Ludwig always managed to hit a soft spot, it seemed.

Snapping back into the cold and relentless grip of reality, he raises his head and stares forward, his attempted grip on the wall slackening to let his palms press flat against the cursed thing. He steps closer but never removes his hands, pausing only when the distance is far lessened and he has to bend his elbows. The wall pushes back with a strong, authoritative force that reminds him of how he'll never be able to move it. Never be able to break through and get to the other side, the side of freedom and hope and dreams and Ludwig.

A broken noise in the back of this throat breaks the silence that seemed endless, so very soft and unheard by the other side that he yearned for and dreamed about so much. Would they ever be able to hear him? What if he brought together all of his rage, his loneliness and his hatred, twisted them all with each other and unleashed it in a shattering scream? Would a free person in the West hear him, notice him, try to help him? Would his brother hear him?

He had asked that before, actually. The Russian had asked him what he was thinking about, and because resistance was a far-off dream and lies meant swift punishment, he told him, and the man just smiled. Smiled like he always did, that fake, disgusting smile, shaking his head with a motion so gentle that actually made it looked like he cared.

"No. No, my little one. No one will ever hear you."

That high, childish tone rang through his mind, it's haunting echo scaring away any remnants of hope that might have tried to worm there way through. Hope was unheard of, forgotten when he realized how pitifully useless it was. With a wall that size, that long and that strong, hope was nothing. A fly landing on it and being shooed away by a guard or blown away by the breeze.

Hope meant nothing when concrete had split your heart in two.

A distance noise rips him from his thoughts and sends him crashing back to Earth, and suddenly he realizes that somewhere along the line he had fallen to his knees in front of the wall, waist bent as he buckled in on himself, but his palms never moved from their place. The ground and wall together makes him shiver, his coat wasn't heavy enough and his pants were as thin as paper, but he doesn't move to stand. The Prussian bowed his head, forcing himself to look away from what was in front of him and instead look down at his knees. It hurt. Physically and mentally, he felt the wall and all the pain and suffering it brought. To him, to his people. It tears at his heart and pounds in his head and bruises his already battered, worn and tired body.

The realization hits him slowly.

It can't be. No. No. He couldn't be. He'd lost the ability to do that.. to..

To see if it's even real, test if it's just an illusion, he brings one of his hands back to him and feels his face through the holes in his glove.

Wet.

His cheek is wet.

Proving the fact makes the feeling even worse, and with a shuddering sob he gives in, bringing both arms close to his chest as he kneels over with a pained howl. Tears streaking down a dirty face, racing down the thin lines and dips etched into his face before gravity coaxes them down to the ground below. His hands find his face, muffling any more noise that might escape.

He can't be heard. No. To be caught in such a state would ruin him. He was weak and oh was he tired, but he hadn't cried, not once. It was a weakness that couldn't be seen.

Much less stopped, proved the shaky breaths and muffled cries into the palms of his hands, still chilly from being against the very object that dragged him into this state.

The once mighty nation breaks down into his hands with jerks and motions that send his thin, bony frame into shakes and quivers. Slowly but surely they seem to get softer and softer as the broken mess of a man builds himself back up again, forcing his emotion back into the bottle it'd become accustomed to. He's never allowed to that again, he tells himself as he wipes at his eyes and cheeks with the dirty, hole-ridden gloves, streaking them with the dirt collected in the cheap fabric.

Gilbert composes himself, eyes still red and watery though the harsh glare he forces himself to wear. His mask, his protection. Bottling up what's inside, hiding it behind arrogance and a snarl, because otherwise would hurt him. He'd be damned if he showed any weakness. He stands on shaky feet and balls his hands into fists at his side, clenching tight, subconsiously noting that his hands are starting to go numb as he forces his eyes away from the concrete barrier in front of him. The fallen nation stands there, moments coming and going before he turns around, turning his back to the wall. To the pain. The suffering. The guilt. His home. His brother. Tough as ever he starts walking, pace alternating between quickening in desperation to leave the wall and slowing in the reluctance to return back to the Russian. But he'll go. He doesn't want to, he'll go. Because concrete isn't permanent. The unbreakable eventually breaks, crumbles, revealing what had been hidden or shut away from the world. As much as he doesn't want to go, he has to, at least for now. Because the wall will be gone one day, his people hope. The wall will be gone, and he'll be free again.

Until then, he can wait.


End file.
